I am nine years old, or fifteen, or twenty-two. Young enough
that when I enter the department store, I lack the self-assuredness that
I’m sure
I will one day gain.
I’m shopping for school clothes,
I think. Or maybe a dress for a dance or some other occasion
I am supposed to care about.
Of course, I am naked.
I cross my arms over my chest, either small-breasted or large,
or nothing at all in the moments that I am still a genderless child,
shoved unwilling into the pink-or-blue, curvy-or-straight capitalistic carnival with its
glaring fluorescents, doubled on the glossy floors
that now I can feel
cold on my bare feet.
I duck behind racks upon racks of clothes that I’m sure
won’t fit
my knobby knees,
my freshman-fifteen belly,
my desire to blend in,
my desire to stand out.
Nothing is right, I know it
from no more than a glance, a brisk brush of fingertips along fabric.
The store becomes more crowded, with
strangers, with
classmates, with
my best friends’ boyfriends. With
my mother a dozen times over, with
my most judgmental aunts, and even – the greatest mortification – with
my most loving teachers.
Panic rises in earnest. What was
an inconvenience,
then a problem,
has grown
into crisis.
My ears buzz with their murmurs now,
my bare ass burns with their stares, directed now
from every angle.
Darting between rows of dresses and jeans is futile;
these sentries of style and sensibility
can't or won't
hide me, and anyway
everyone knows
there’s someone in here
that’s wrong
and they want to see it, want to
witness my mortification to assure themselves it’s not so bad
for themselves, not today
at least.
I consider crawling into the center of a circular rack,
a refugee at the epicenter of an atom-bomb cloud of sequins and shoulder pads,
reenacting my toddlerhood naughtiness told over and over again through the years
with a laugh, never not paired with a reproachful glance, as though
I might just do it again and so must be reminded
that she said
don’t you ever.
But what’s one more transgression today, what
could be worse than this, the
unthinkable, the
unbelieva-
I stop.
I straighten my body. Feel my spine sigh at the release.
Look around through narrowed, discerning, new eyes.
I think, and yet, hear myself thinking, as though I’ve spoken aloud:
there is no way this would ever happen.
The realization breaks like a wave,
I am soaked through with relief.
Then, I think-speak the incantation that frees me:
This is a dream.
I am dreaming.
I confirm this, though I already know it’s true absolutely,
by looking again at the people still milling about. All of a sudden
they’re not looking at me at all. All of a sudden
I don’t know any of them. All of a sudden
they are as faceless as the fears that had held me hostage, hunched and hidden.
And then, the greatest realization of all:
If this is a dream, I can do whatever I want.
I’m still naked.
It never occurs to me to change
that detail with my newfound power.
I turn a cartwheel. Then another.
My adult-sized, post-baby breasts fall into my face when
my hands hit the floor
and I laugh.
More, I think,
I can do more.
I push off the gray corporate carpet with toes that
have always been too long to look cute in sandals,
and move high and slow,
more of a float than a jump.
I land in the middle of the juniors’ section and
jump again, but this time I freeze myself in midair,
strike a ninja pose, or maybe
it's from ballet:
one leg bent under me, the other
extended outward in a frozen kick, stretchmarked thighs
strong and showy.
I begin to rotate in midair, and now I see
myself as if in a movie,
in the third person:
she is spinning slowly, acrobatically, like an artist, like art. She is
in no rush, she takes
in her surroundings with a private smile, gazing
down an outstretched arm
across chipped purple-polished fingernails at
the world that is not her.
Because what is her is perfect.
Is fearless.
Is the very idea of power itself made flesh and
bone and
muscle and
feeling and
thought.
Perfect like a molecule of
any given element
is perfect.
Perfect for the simple fact
of its
being.
One minute or one lifetime later, I wake.
Lucid dreaming, the term arises,
still in thought-speak, before habit even opens my eyes.
I want more than anything to experience it again.
No.
I want more than anything
to move through my waking life that way:
Embodied.
Unashamed.
Unafraid.
Unbothered by the world that is not me.
Perfect.
Lucid.
About the Creator
Cara Wittekind
Sci-fi dreamer in the US South. Writing in my head while I raise two kids; writing actual words....occasionally.
Reader insights
Outstanding
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Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
Easy to read and follow
Well-structured & engaging content
Excellent storytelling
Original narrative & well developed characters
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The story invoked strong personal emotions
On-point and relevant
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Comments (1)
This is an incredible piece. Smiled the whole way throughout reading at just how easy to read it was while still conveying a very intricate and relatable idea. Well done!